“I didn’t go through with it at all, Bluebird. Believe it or not, I’m capable of not fucking everything with a pussy.”
Silently, I tilt my head to one side and then the other, giving him a look of disbelief. He said nearly the same thing to me several months ago, a week before Your Toxic Sequel started their last tour. We weren’t sleeping together at the time, and he sure as hell wasn’t mine to lay claim to, but I desperately wanted to believe him.
Wyatt only lasted three days into the tour. I can’t remember her name now—because there’ve been too many during our breaks and bullshit—but she was beautiful, and my exact opposite physically. And though I shouldn’t have felt anything because I’d already expected the worse, it was impossible not to hurt when I saw her leaving his hotel room.
The tour was one of the last major blows, and the following Thanksgiving firmly secured what I already knew in my mind. No matter how hard we try, there’s no place for me whatsoever in Wyatt’s life.
I rub my right hand over my left shoulder. “I never said you screw everything with lady bits. Actually, I’m pretty sure you’re damn selective. All I’m trying to—”
What I’m on the verge of saying is cut short by another couple wandering drunkenly into the alley. They’re falling all over each other, laughing and groping. They don’t seem to notice that we’re here at all.
Shrugging away from Wyatt, I start in the direction of the club, and he follows right on my heels.
“At least they’re having a good time,” I say under my breath.
Of course, he hears me and snorts. “We’ll have better once we’re together again.” He pauses, giving me time to counter or look up at him. When I do neither, he walks backward, speeding up so that he can face me. “But we won’t be like them. I’m going to fuck you everywhere, Kylie, but not where anyone else will see it.”
I’m at a loss for words, completely flustered, so I edge around his tall body, keeping my gaze directed at the blur of people on the sidewalks. Our bodies brush, and he turns around to walk next to me. His fingertips find one of my belt loops, tugging me just a touch closer to him, but I still don’t budge. Instead, I meet his stare. Wyatt’s eyes—they’re the reason we’ve been on this merry-go-round so many times. They carry all his emotions— the beautiful and hideous and heartbreaking.
“I’m exhausted,” I say, faking a yawn as the entrance to the warehouse nightclub comes into view. A long line is zigzagging around the club, and I realize there’s no way we’re getting back inside. I wrench my iPhone out of the pocket of my jeans to send Heidi a message to let her know what’s going on, but she’s already beaten me to it. I have two missed FaceTime calls and a text from just five minutes ago.
1:48 a.m.: Saw you leave with HIM, so I came back to the room. Don’t tell me Lucas ratted you out. You coming back after you’re done? Finn might be stopping by later, so text me if you do.
As I read, Wyatt stifles a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter, and I cock my eyebrow. He’s rocking back on his heels and working his thumbs together in front of him like a diabolical asshole.
“What?”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I know that look from anywhere. Somebody said something that pisses you off. And I bet you the panties you’ve got on that it’s about me.”
Pressing my lips together, I run the tip of my tongue along the roof of my mouth. Even my best friend assumes that when Wyatt McCrae shows up, the probability of me falling into bed with him as soon as he snaps his musical note–tattooed fingers is pretty damn high. “No, but I am sleepy as hell. So, we’ll have to do this another time, and I’m going to respectfully keep my panties in place tonight.”
“You sure know how to kick me in the balls, Ky, but I call bullshit.” Ignoring my sharp intake of air, Wyatt runs his hand down my forearm. He doesn’t stop until our palms touch, and he connects his fingers with mine. “I’ll get us a taxi. We need to talk, and we’re going to do it in my hotel room.”
“I can get my own cab.” When his grip on my hand tenses, I release a sigh. I can stand here all night and argue with him, but it’s just going to make the situation worse. Wyatt wants to talk? Fine. I can handle conversation. “No trying to talk me into bed when we get to your room. And afterward, you’ll let me enjoy the rest of my vacation?” I have only one more night left after this one, and damn it, I want to spend it in peace.
He nods almost convincingly, and a moment later, he flags down a taxi. I climb in and slide to the far left side of the car, and he comes in right after me, intensely gazing across the seat at me all the while. Judging by the hungry look in his eyes, I’d think I was sitting on the other side of a bed, naked and jutting out my B-cups while begging him for round two. Instead, I’m scowling in a cold, dark cab.
“Stop picturing me without my clothes.”
Smirking, Wyatt lowers his mouth until it touches my cheek, and my shoulders lift up involuntarily. “Not naked, Ky, but fully clothed,” he drawls softly enough so that only I can hear. “I’m thinking about how creative we’d have to be to get it in right here.”
I give him an incredulous look. “What happened to the whole ‘not where anyone else will see’ spiel?”
“Emphasis on the word creative, beautiful.”
I’m damn lucky that the cab driver chooses this second to clear his throat a few times, letting us know that he’s waiting for a destination. The moment between us is ruined, and Wyatt and I break apart, glancing up to meet the man’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “The Veranda,” we say in unison.
As I lift my chin, he grins, and—damn it—my stomach and chest constrict. “You Foursquare stalked me down to the hotel?” I ask, my voice subdued but hard. “I’ve got to say, Wyatt, your effort this go ‘round is a bit scary.”
He shrugs. “Better me than somebody else. I have good intentions.”
No, he has sweaty intentions.
“It was someone else who did the stalking. Cal,” I point out, rolling my eyes. When I catch the cab driver glancing up at us through the front mirror again, I lower my volume. “What time do you have to be back tomorrow to record?” The sooner Wyatt has to leave, the better, considering my heart and the short remainder of my vacation.
“There’s not going to be any recording for a while.”
“Y’all are finished already?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. The band just started to record. It’s been a long time since Your Toxic Sequel made a new album without a lot of B.S. and delays.
“You’re sexy as fuck when you say y’all. You know that, right?” He bites his lower lip and shakes his head from side to side. Before I have a chance to smart off at him, he continues, “But, no, we’re not. Look, your brother didn’t want to mess up your trip, but Sinjin—”
The moment he says Your Toxic Sequel’s drummer’s name, I know nothing good will follow. “Oh no, what’s happened now?” I murmur.
“We talked him into in-patient.”
I bury my face in my hands. Other than Wyatt, Sinjin is my brother’s oldest friend. Cal didn’t join the band until six years ago after they had changed their name from Falling Anarchy to Your Toxic Sequel. In the fifteen years I’ve known Sinjin—fifteen years where he’s become more like a brother to me than just one of Lucas’s friends—he’s spent half of that time in and out of rehab.
“Was it bad?” I ask.
Even though Wyatt’s mouth eases into a smile, I know this has to be painful for him. I always hate it when he’s hurting because the crazy range of emotions that play out on his face makes everything from my throat to my stomach feel like it’s all tangled up in knots.
“Not as bad as last time.”
My shoulders slump. The last time, Sinjin told me he wouldn’t make it if he had to go away, and it had scared the shit out of me. I start to tell Wyatt how relieved I am, but then I freeze. For some reason, he’s suddenly more interested in his phone than talking about Sin or ogling, touching, or teasing me. He’s holding something back, and he should know me well enough to realize I’m going to ask more questions.